


in the practice of my calling

by kellifer_fic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt Derek, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/pseuds/kellifer_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr prompt - Nurse Me</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the practice of my calling

A phone call at two in the morning is never a good sign, especially if you're friends with a bunch of werewolves.

Stiles can't open his eyes at first, gummed shut with sleep, so he pats blindly at his side table until his fingers touch his phone and then he's tugging it under the covers with him, saying blearily, "Someone better be dead and this is them calling from the afterlife."

There's silence for a few moments and then mushy, indistinct noises that sound like someone trying to say his name. Stiles pries his eyes open enough to see that the caller ID says _Derek_ and Stiles pushes his phone back up to his ear.

"Derek? Did you butt-dial me again?"

"...Stiles? Th...ah... why did you call?"

"You called me buddy, work with me here," Stiles says, pushing his covers down with his feet and sighing dramatically.

"I... no. I didn't..." Derek's voice trails off and it reaches through Stiles' sleep fog that Derek sounds like he's slurring and there's definitely some confusion going on which, in Stiles' experience, are Bad Signs. He's a werewolf so this isn't Derek drunk-dialing him but Stiles has experienced enough concussions and blood loss scenarios to know the warning signs, both personally and in close proximity to the events.

"Where are you?" Stiles demands, sitting up now, adrenalin dumping through his system and pushing him right over into the mystical land of alertness that he'd been hoping to escape at least until six when he had early lacrosse practice.

"Lo..." Derek tries, seems to clear his throat and with some effort, repeats, "Loft."

"Okay, I'm coming, alright?" Stiles says. "Want to stay on the phone with me so I know you don't-" _die_ , Stiles doesn't get to say before the call drops out. "Crap."

Stiles gets up, pulls on a pair of jeans from the floor over his boxers he'd slept in, not even bothering with a sniff check of the shirt he'd thrown at his closet when he'd gotten home before he tugs it on. Werewolves with sensitive noses can deal with the stench if they're going to call him at ass o'clock in the morning and not even give him a good explanation. 

Stiles figures it's not too much of a leap to assume Derek's hurt so he tries calling Melissa first, hoping she'll be at the hospital so she can hide Derek if Stiles ends up having to bring him in. The call goes straight to voicemail, which means for Melissa she's sleeping after a double because it's the only time she switches off. Stiles tries Scott next, hears the old school Mario game theme start up from the vicinity of his desk and stomps over to find Scott's phone rattling happily across the surface.

"Useful, Scott," Stiles gripes. 

He can probably swing by Scott's house before he goes to Derek's, but it's ten or fifteen minutes in the wrong direction and Stiles doesn't know how bad off Derek is, whether maybe Derek has been holding out on them all this time and he _does_ know a way to get drunk. He decides to go straight to the loft, try Deaton on the way and if Derek's in a bad way, call Allison who is responsible and always has her phone _on_ and get her to bring the cavalry if needed.

Stiles hunkers down and tugs the black duffel bag out from under his bed that has his emergency supplies. It's a bag that both Melissa and Deaton helped him put together so it's got a little bit of everything, mundane first aid supplies and mystical cure-alls. He silently offers up a silent prayer of thanks that his dad's on an overnight shift as he thumps down the stairs and then he's in the jeep and speeding towards Derek's building, hoping this is all going to be nothing bad and he'll get to yell at Derek for waking him for no reason.

*

It's bad.

Derek doesn't answer the door so Stiles digs the key-ring out of his pocket that he keeps everyone else' keys on, fits the key with a sharpie-marked _D_ on it in the lock on Derek's door and pushes it aside. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, to reconcile the lump in the middle of Derek's floor as _Derek_. 

"Crap," Stiles groans with feeling and scuttles over, unslinging the duffel from his shoulder as he goes. Derek is face-down, one hand thrown out towards the door and the cushions from the couch on his legs like maybe he'd pushed off the couch towards the door and had collapsed on the way. Stiles gently levers Derek's arm down to a less painful looking angle and then takes Derek by the shoulders and rolls him over, grunting with the effort.

Derek isn't nearly as big as he was as an Alpha, pared down to the essentials but he still feels as heavy as he did in the pool and Stiles swears as his feet skid on the floorboards before he finally gets a solid enough grip and Derek is flopped over like a landed fish. The first thing Stiles does is check Derek's breathing, heart beating. He does both by laying his head on Derek's chest quickly, feeling it rise and fall under his cheek, the breath rattling in and out of him, labored but still happening. 

Stiles abandons Derek long enough to knee-walk over to the pillar with the light switch and slap it on. Pale, yellow light floods the room and Stiles sees on his way back over the dark stain on the bottom edge of Derek's t-shirt and the tacky-looking puddle left behind when Stiles had rolled him over. Stiles reaches for the bottom edge of the shirt, meaning to pull it up and out of the way so he can see just what he's dealing with and that's when Derek grabs his wrist, almost bone-crushing with the werewolf strength.

"Ow, ow, ow! Ease up on the kung-fu grip!" Stiles yelps and Derek lets him go immediately, eyes wide and glassy but trying to fix on him. 

"Stiles? What-?"

"You called me," Stiles says, rubbing his wrist with a scowl before he reaches out again, more tentatively this time. "This is not as dirty as it sounds but I'm going to take your shirt off to take a look, okay?"

"Am I... oh," Derek says, looking down at himself, at the sticky peel of his shirt as Stiles rolls it back carefully, mindful of dried blood and not-so-dried blood.

"Ugh, what did you do now?" Stiles sighs, pushing the shirt up just under Derek's armpits and leaning his face close to get a better look. The loft lighting scheme is fine if you're planning on sitting around moodily posing, but not much use for checking out gaping wounds, and this is just that, a _gaping_ wound. Stiles could comfortably fit his entire hand in the hole in Derek's side, not that he would _ever want to do that_.

"I don't..." Derek tries again, hands trying to wave Stiles off and Stiles slaps them away. Apparently that burst of strength Derek used to grab him initially was all he had left because Stiles is able to easily pin Derek's arms back down, Derek now aware enough to look put-out about it.

"You called _me_. Stop being such a baby," Stiles scolds, sitting back on his haunches to paw through his bag and take out what he'll most likely need. 

"I'm fine," Derek tries, which is hilarious and such a blatant lie that Stiles doesn't even bother to look up from where he's setting out supplies on the floor next to Derek's prone form. 

"You're not, actually," Stiles says, hands walking over bottles and his suture kit, checking everything's there. "Now, I need you to tell me if that's a bite or just you tearing yourself up being your usual dumbass self."

"Seriously, Stiles. I don't need your help. I'll heal."

"There is a _hole_ in you, Derek. This big," Stiles says, raising a fist. "I'm going to need to stitch it."

"You _don't_ ," Derek insists, but there's still a slow pulse of blood leaking from the wound, sluggish and dark and Derek's looking incredibly pale, more than usual. He's not even raising his arms in protest anymore.

"You know it's not the cutting in half that kills werewolves?" Stiles says conversationally, threading a compound curve needle and feeling a little thrill of vicious amusement that the only thread he had to hand was bright pink because he was out of suture thread. For a werewolf, it didn't have to hold that long so Deaton had told him that regular cotton was fine as a substitute in a pinch. If he had the time he could coat it in superglue to make it last longer but Derek _was_ generally a faster healer than the others, maybe because his body hadn't had to learn it, it was what came naturally. "It's the bleeding out from the traumatic injury and the inability to heal fast enough to compensate."

"I'm not going to bleed out," Derek huffs, but even he doesn't sound like he one hundred percent believes that anymore.

"Are you sure, because I'm not. It'll make _me_ feel better," Stiles wheedles, waggling the now threaded needle and Derek rolls his eyes, impressive because they've gone a little unfocused again.

"Fine," he huffs, managing to sound magnanimous and Stiles pats him on the shoulder.

"Now, bitten by something or not? I need to know if I need to treat this first."

"Just an Omega and it's a claw wound."

"Where is it?" Stiles asks, looking around even though logically he knows it's probably not lurking in the loft, ready to jump out at him. Derek probably would have said something, like, watch out for the Omega that's hiding under the bed.

"I scared him off."

"How. By bleeding on him? You need a better tactic."

"He came off worse, believe me," Derek says and now he actually looks like he's pouting which would be adorable if Stiles wasn't sure he could see some of Derek's organs right now.

"Are you really going with, _you should see the other guy_?" Stiles huffs and then has to bend to the task at hand. "Oh god, gross. Why are you so gross? I really hate you."

"No you don't," Derek says on an exhale, head dropping sideways and Stiles would agree that yes, he probably, okay, no definitely, doesn't. He's actually probably too far the other way but he's too busy leaning over Derek and slapping him sharply in the face.

"What the hell?" Derek barks, eyes widening and going focused where they'd been slipping shut.

"I'm thinking this is a _you should stay awake_ situation," Stiles says, hating that his voice comes out more than a little shaky.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Derek asks.

"Sure, I've seen it on television," Stiles says and at Derek's grunt, he rolls his eyes. "I've been practicing with Deaton and Mel, got them to show me some stuff. I've been practicing on oranges."

"I'm not an orange."

"Yeah, they're not as mouthy. Anyway, I got good enough that I've moved into sewing two sides of a grape together."

"You get very bored a lot, don't you?"

"I need stuff to occupy my hands and my brain at the same time. It was either this or knitting."

"Two sides of a grape?"

"Two ways to fail. Either a suture rips through or when you pick up the grape by one side the other side moves. Mel says any practice is good practice as long as you're not practicing bad technique."

"Why oranges?"

"The peel has about the same thickness as human skin." 

"It's weird that you know that."

"All done."

"Seriously?" Derek says, picking his head up and fingers reaching for the stitched-closed wound. Stiles pushes his questing hand away and instead cuts a non-stick bandage down to size and places it over Derek's side and then tapes the edges down. 

"Now, do I need to put one of those Elizabethan collars on you?"

"Stiles," Derek groans. 

"C'mon, it'll be hilarious and it'll stop you chewing the stitches."

"I'm not going to chew the stitches," Derek says, tapping a fist against Stiles' knee. "Thanks for coming over, by the way."

"Anytime. Just, try to limit brawls with rogue Omegas to more socially acceptable hours. Just after dinner would be best for me when there's not much on television."

"I didn't mean to call you," Derek says, frowning and pushing himself carefully into a sitting position. Halfway he's wincing and huffing so Stiles scoots around until he's behind Derek and helping. He's not really expecting Derek to just slump back into him and Stiles moves around until he's braced by the couch and Derek is braced on him. Derek is panting and sweaty but from what Stiles can see, his color's coming back. He waits for Derek to move away now he's stable, but Derek just slumps further.

"Um, dude? I should probably... go," Stiles says.

"Sure."

"You need to get off me."

"Comfortable," Derek says through a yawn.

"Why did you call me?"

"Who else could I call?" Derek says and Stiles thinks about it for a second, but really, he is the only option these days, except for Scott. Derek didn't try Scott first though, Stiles would know considering Scott's phone was in his room. 

Derek's head drops back and lands on Stiles' shoulder with a gentle thump. He lets out a soft snore a moment later and Stiles sighs, resigning himself to staying right where he is.

*

Stiles wakes up, disorientated. He's in a bed, but he doesn't remember driving home and there's a warm weight across his stomach. He pats it, and it's an arm, attached to Derek whose eyes are open, watching Stiles, something wary in his expression.

"Hey. You, uh, moved us to the bed?" Stiles says, not tugging free yet because Derek hasn't moved.

"You would've been really stiff," Derek says and rolls his eyes when Stiles smirks. "Shut up."

"Nah, it's sweet. Did you carry me bridal style?"

"Like a sack of potatoes," Derek says, shaking his head. "Can't believe you didn't wake up."

"I was pretty tired. Had some jerk wake me and then bleed on me," Stiles says, looks down at himself absently and he's wearing the same jeans but Derek has put another shirt on him. It's Derek's dark red sweater with the thumb holes and Stiles buries his nose in the sleeve for a moment.

"It's six. You said you had early Lacrosse practice?"

"Ugh," Stiles says feelingly and sits up. He knows his hair's probably a disaster and he pats at it fruitlessly. "You okay?"

"Yep," Derek says, canting his hips up and Stiles swallows but Derek's just lifting his shirt and showing the new pink line of the wound that looks weeks old rather than hours. "I took the stitches out about an hour ago."

"Looks good," Stiles says, automatically reaching out and running his thumb along the line. Derek jerks a little and Stiles grimaces. "Sorry, still sore?"

"No, just... ticklish," Derek says.

"Oh, really?" Stiles says with a grin. 

"Want a ride to school?"

"Got my jeep. How do you think I got here last night?"

"Oh, right," Derek says and he looks sleep-mussed and lovely and Stiles leans in and kisses him, a quick peck on the lips that he can play off as affectionate or friendly or whatever but he just needed to, just this once-

Derek grabs the back of his head and pushes up into him, sealing their lips together, licking into Stiles' mouth, fast and dirty. When he lets go, Stiles flops back and blinks at him. "Well, there's that," he says, at a loss as to what else to say.

"There's that," Derek agrees. He's sitting up now, sheets pooled around his legs and looking probably about as surprised with himself as Stiles is surprised with him. 

"The jeep was making a weird, uh, noise last night? Maybe you could drop me at school. Maybe pick me up after, we could grab dinner?"

"That, um, sounds fine," Derek says, darting a quick, bright smile at Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> First published on [my tumblr](http://kellifer-k.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


End file.
